


Dear Santa, Thanks -- Dean

by korynn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:26:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korynn/pseuds/korynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam deciding to come home for Christmas vacation from Stanford, Dean feels like if he doesn't tell Sam his feelings now then he probably never will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Santa, Thanks -- Dean

**Author's Note:**

> BOY KISSING EEEEEW  
> just throwing that warning out there if you missed the memo

It took almost two months for Sam to get enough information out of Dean and convince him to stay somewhere for Christmas so he could visit.

Dean fought every step of the way, the wounds of Sam leaving barely healed over. He's not ready to see Sam again just yet. It might be two years now and Sam might be different, but Dean hasn't changed. He still can't handle seeing a floppy haired college-age kid in a bar without drinking himself stupid that night, or trying to convince himself (and Dad), that he doesn't miss the skinny bastard.

He feels like he's missing a limb, but he'd never tell anyone.

So when Sam does show up, Dean has to swallow the smile, the butterflies. Dumb them down to a slow boil with alcohol; fingers itching to touch, to brush bangs out of eyes, to straighten out the collar flipped off when Sam pulled off his hoodie.

They've found a house to stay, a little two bedroom thing tucked away in the foothills of some mountain range in Oregon, as close as Dean would get to California.

Also, the best part? Dad didn't want to come. He found himself a hunt and "let Dean play house, get it over with", so the brothers are left to their own devices.

Which might be good, but Dean's wants make him the crabby. He knows it, Sam can obviously tell something's up, by the sad, concerned puppy eyes he keeps giving him when he thinks Dean isn't looking.

Tucking himself into one end of the couch, plate of pie balanced on his lap, beer tucked between cushion and thigh, Dean watches Sam watch him, before wiggling his toes against Sam's side and grinning when it startles him.

"I'm surprised you've lasted this long without mentioning Dad or a hunt." Sam teases in return, reaching out to steal a chunk of the crust off Dean's plate, dodging the fork he uses to defend it.

"Hands off the pie, dude. Go get your own." Pausing to sink deeper into the cushions of the couch, he sighs and flops his head back. "Figured you didn't want to hear about anything like that. More interested in you, why you finally bothered to harass me with your skinny ass again."

"Felt like it, sheesh. Can't I spend time with my family on Christmas?" All grins, Dean can tell Sam's not picking a fight. But Dean's skin feels too tight and he can't stop holding in the _whatever_ that's making the pie hard to swallow.

"....Sam...."

"Dean, don't you dare start getting emotional on me. I'm the girly one with feelings, remember?"

Dean sighs again, kicking Sam in the side another time. "Bitch. I wanted to say I missed you, thought you'd like that sappy shit."

Sam blushes and tucks his head down, hair falling into his face, and Dean has to lean over and tuck it back, nudge a flushed cheek with his knuckles. "That's a new reaction."

"Shut up. Jerk. Just didn't think I'd hear that from you anytime soon."

"Well hell, you did. And it's still true. I more than miss you, but I don't wanna put you into some sort of heart attack from hearing me talk about feelings." Sliding it out like a joke, he hopes Sam doesn't catch it, but looking back, he should've known better.

Sam's head jerks up and those cat eyes go wide, staring at Dean with a stunned expression that Dean feels like he's standing on the brake of the Impala, looking at a deer. "More than-?"

"That's enough for tonight, I think." Dean jerks himself off the couch, out of the conversation, quick to grab his beer and finish it off before dropping it on the coffee table with all the others for whenever he decides to clean up. "Time for bed. I'm too old for slumber parties."

But Sam just couldn't brush it off. Following him down the hall, he pins him by the doorway of the room Dean had claimed as his own, hand holding his shoulder against it and the other blocking him from slipping with hand to the wall near his side. "Dean. Explain that shit. You can't just drop a bomb like that and walk away!"

"A bomb like what? I said I missed you, how is that a big deal?"

"More than, Dean? What the hell does that even mean?"

"Nothing, sheesh!"

"Dean..."

And Dean's never been able to hold himself up against those puppy eyes, and the words are just itching against the back of his throat, clamoring to be free.

"I'm in love with you, and you left me, and I thought I could get over it and you and it was just some fluke but fuck, Sam, I want to ki-"

He cuts himself off at the look on Sam's face, the near excited wonder still crystal clear, even if Dean's vision is blurry with unshed tears.

"Finish that, Dean. What do you want?"

"Sam..." Oh hell no, Sam's not gonna pull that out of him. He's not gonna cross that line. No matter how much he wants, he's not going to.

So Sam steps closer, hip to hip, and as much as Dean won't say it, he'll sure as hell whine at that. "Dean, please. What do you want?"

"I want to kiss-"

And he's cut off by outside force this time, Sam's lips covering his and a big hand cupping his face, tilting his jaw up and whoa that's a new sensation, being the one tilting his face up to be kissed, but he won't complain, can't, because it's _Sam_. His Sam, kissing him.

He sure as hell won't look a gift horse in the mouth, either, yanking Sam closer by his shirt and opening his mouth to lick at Sam's and oh god, he's dead. He's died and this is just a pre-hell dream to torture him.

Sam pulls away after a moment to smirk down at a flush faced Dean, hand curled possessive on his hip as he steps even further into Dean's space, hiking a thigh between his legs and grinning and the noise it gets out of him. "You weren't the only one wanting things you shouldn't have."

Dean's never going to forget the Christmas in which Santa, for once, was real.


End file.
